


Beneath the Gilded Head and Iron Palm

by CaptainHoney



Series: Beneath the Golden Head and Iron Palm [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Captain America Reverse Big Bang 2018, I don't know how to tag things help my brain is jelly, I don't know if that actually needs to be tagged for? but have it anyway, I like unsatisfying endings sorry, Knights!AU, M/M, SHIELD!Bucky, Stucky - Freeform, anyway I wrote a sonnet for y'all, content warning for a lot of blood and people getting punched in the face, coulson shows up for about 5seconds, everyone is weirdly immune to knives, hydra!steve, king!nickfury, major character death: alexander pierce, medieval!au, past buckynat if you squint really hard, squire!peter, there are some kissing bits, tony sam rhodey rumlow and maria all make an appearance as well
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-15
Updated: 2018-06-15
Packaged: 2019-05-23 17:18:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 18,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14938541
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaptainHoney/pseuds/CaptainHoney
Summary: In exile for years fighting border skirmishes for King Nicholas the Fury, Sir James is suddenly summoned back to the capital. Once there, he is roped into uncovering a conspiracy which threatens the king's life, and maybe his own.





	1. A Knife in the Dark

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Beneath the Gilded Head and Iron Palm (Art)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14938496) by [SgtGraves](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SgtGraves/pseuds/SgtGraves). 



> Yay it's rbb time again! I... should not do this again next year. But I love it! Enormous thanks to the ridiculously talented sgt-graves for producing such a fantastic artwork and such a tantalising prompt, it was so much fun to bring to life. Huge thanks also to daphneblithe for betaing and cheerleading, and thanks to the mods for their phenomenal organisation and boundless patience.  
> As always, if there's anything I haven't tagged that you want to check for before you dive in, let me know. If there's something I really should have tagged and haven't, also please let me know!  
> Additional note: the hammy petrarchan sonnet at the start of the fic was written by me, because I was panicking about the title and it doesn't seem to make sense unless it's from something, so I wrote a thing for it to be from. Such great lengths, etc.

I loved a man whose head was crown’d in gold,  
In iron gauntlets he did grasp a sword.   
In his eyes I thought I saw my love assured,   
But through cunning is how a lord grows old.   
I loved a man, none other was so bold,   
And would have died for him at just his word,   
Were he but a peasant and not my lord.   
I was loyal and did as I was told.   
Yet beneath the gilded head and iron palm,   
A heart I knew would never beat for me   
Lay in a breast as cold as winter’s morn.   
Though in his face seemed love that was a balm,   
He held a dagger that I did not see,   
And now but one of us is left to mourn.   
_-popular sonnet_

 

Look like th’ innocent flower, but be the serpent under ‘t.  
-William Shakespeare, _Macbeth_

 

A starling hung suspended in the sky, held aloft by the wind. Motionless it stayed, a black elegance against the cloudless blue, while carrion birds swooped and dove around it. James watched it, entranced, until the wind shifted closer to the earth and the starling was obscured by a haze of smoke.

Thick mud tried to keep him rooted to the battlefield as he swung onto his horse. He was caked in it to the thighs, where it joined the rivulets of blood that ran down his breastplate. James had not yet assessed how much of the blood was his. There had not been time; no sooner had the battle been won than a messenger arrived, on a horse foaming with hard travel, to call him back to the capital. The fire of battle was still in him, and he had not yet begun to hurt.

His squire, Peter, had barely mounted his own horse when James took off at a canter toward the road. The wind dried the sweat and blood in his hair until it flowed out behind him. They left the sounds of dying men, the smell of smoke and gore. The sky was a perfect azure dome, and away from the churned earth of the battlefield the ground was thick with emerald grass and bright pinpricks of late summer wildflowers.

James slowed his horse to a walk, breathing deeply. Peter drew level alongside him and they rode for a time in easy silence as the road wound out of the plains and into sparse woodland. They stopped by a brook which curved briefly by the roadside to water the horses and eat a little. James felt stiffer now, cuts and bruises making themselves known.

‘You should bathe, Sir,’ Peter said softly, handing him a heel of bread.

‘Tonight. When the woods are thicker and there’s a fire.’ He tore off a chunk of bread with his teeth and immediately regretted it as pain shot through his jaw. ‘Come here and tell me if I’ve broken anything.’

Peter pressed at his face with delicate fingers. There was pain, but no grinding of bone against bone, no missing shards of teeth.

‘You’ve a large cut, and a lot of bruising. You’re lucky it’s not worse.’ Peter gave him the sternest look he could manage. ‘You should let me treat it now before it festers.’

‘Tonight.’ James tore the bread into small pieces with his fingers and ate it, avoiding Peter’s eyes.

Peter sighed. ‘I cannot be a squire to a dead knight, you know.’

‘I am not going to die, Peter,’ James said, annoyed.

‘You say that, and yet one of these days you’re going to get your leg cut off and bleed to death out of stoicism. Or perhaps you enjoy pain, I know not which.’ They glared at each other. ‘Forgive me, but sometimes I think you are not a very _smart_ knight, Sir.’

‘You _are_ a very impertinent squire.’ James threw a piece of bread at him, hitting Peter square between the eyes. ‘Leave me be, before I have you replaced with a trained squirrel.’

 

They rode on.

The two men made camp for the night near the bank of a wide stream that cut abruptly through the woods. Peter built a fire as the sky turned from blue to buttery yellow to pearly grey and James stripped off his armour. He lay each piece on a patch of grass, followed by his gambeson, chausse and linen undershirt. Peter would clean off the filth and gore until the suit gleamed again.

In just his braie, James edged down the bank of the stream. It was steep, lined with rocks made smooth when the stream ran deep from winter thaw and slick with moss. He grabbed a fern to steady himself and it came out by the root, landing him face-first in the water. It was cold and swift and for a moment he thought he might drown, before his feet found the stony bottom and he was able to stand, drenched, in the waist-deep water.

Peter looked down at him from the bank, hand clamped firmly over his mouth, looking very pink and his shoulders heaving.

‘If you tell anyone about this,’ James yelled at him, ‘you will be shovelling horseshit for the rest of your natural life.’

‘Not a soul, Sir,’ Peter assured him, then hurried away. James could just hear the sound of his laughter over the noise of the stream.

He sighed deeply. The cold and the wet had knocked the air from his lungs but as he regained himself, his hurts made themselves known. His face was tender - he remembered now, he had been punched by a man even as he lay dying, metal-gloved hand enough to split flesh but not break bone - and when he looked down he saw that his right side was a patchwork of mottled hues. A horse had kicked at him with its hind legs, he seemed to recall, sending him flying into- yes, there was a shallow cut on his thigh where a spear had glanced off his plate, narrowly avoiding piercing his groin. There were other bruises he did not recall receiving, less severe but still tender to the touch. James poked at his ribs experimentally; with a hiss of pain he determined a couple likely cracked, but none broken.

With handfuls of sand from the streambed he scrubbed himself. Blood swirled in the clear water around him and disappeared into the current. The coolness was pleasant now, easing his aches. The cut on his face would need attending to, and the one on his thigh, but he had sustained no great injury. James glanced at his left arm, flexing the fingers; the skin was mottled and rough, covered in scar tissue from shoulder to fingertip. His fingers were still stiff, always would be. He pushed it from his mind.

The last light disappeared from the sky and the moon rose, pearly and bright. It was only a thin rind from fullness, and its light made everything ghostly and strange. James climbed the silver-gilt bank, making careful work of it, and moved into the golden circle of firelight. Peter handed him clothes, which he had already washed a little upstream and dried by the fire, and dressed his wounds as he ate.

‘Sir, do you know why the King has called you back?’ Peter asked carefully. ‘Is he displeased with you?’

‘Why would you think him displeased?’ James replied, amused as Peter blushed. ‘Do you think I have done something to displease him?’

‘I did not mean-’

‘I hope for quite the opposite, in fact. I have been banished for long enough.’ James stared into the flames, a twitch in his scarred fingers. ‘Maybe His Majesty has finally realised I am no good to him off fighting border skirmishes.’

‘But you win them all. Surely that makes you valuable to him.’

‘I’ve long given up trying to understand the whims of our king,’ James said with finality. ‘We’re off at first light. I don’t think we ought to worry about keeping a watch, but just in case anyone does try to kill us in our sleep - try not to wake me.’

They set out again as the horizon flushed from soft grey to bloody crimson, then turned steely as clouds which had gathered in the south overnight spread across the sky. James sweated inside his plate as the oppressive sky bore down upon them, until finally at midday it broke. The deluge washed away the last of the summer heat, crushed the late-blooming flowers, made the road treacherous.

 

They travelled off the main road to take a route in deeper woods where the branches grew so thick as to block most of the rain. Time stretched in strange ways and they spoke little. When they emerged again on the other side the world was washed clean of the green of summer and the leaves were all the colours of autumn.

The moon came full, waned and waxed again ere they drew near to the capital. Finally the spires of the keep were visible on the horizon, when the moon was again missing but a rind.

They joined the trickle of other travellers making their way into the city. With the deep blue of his cloak marking him out as one of the king’s knights, James drew a few eyes, but they were able to travel unmolested through the streets to the palace.

 

The main street was lined with two- and three-story buildings which jostled against each other, upper levels leaning over like old men. Everything stank of human refuse, rotting vegetables and horse dung, mould and stale piss and wet dog. Away from the street and up the back alleys, towards the hovels and slums that were routinely cleared and re-erected, the stench deepened. But closer to the palace, the buildings began to stand to attention. Merchant wares spilled out of shop fronts and onto the footpath. Bolts of coarse wool dyed grey and brown were replaced with linens of rich red and yellow, making way for silks in all the colours of a peacock’s tail. Sidestreets branched off, one ringing with the sound of hammer on anvil, another with the clacking of looms. Coarsely scrubbed root vegetables languishing in barrels were jostled out by apples that grew in size and polish, soon replaced entirely by small pyramids of oranges whose fragrance was cloying enough to disguise the sewage which still ran in the gutters of the rich. When the palace was close enough that one could see the light glinting off the daggers of the palace guards, any pretence of practicality disappeared from the front-facing businesses. Competing perfumeries stood on opposite sides of the street, one with doors flanked by flagons of rosewater, the other with oil scented with jasmine. Privately employed guards with gilded swords guarded storefronts from whose open doors wafted a seductive cacophony of spices or whose windows glinted as beams of sunlight caught the jewels within.

Before the wall of the palace the street opened up into a long, narrow square dotted with fountains and stunted fruit trees. Their branches were bare now, but in spring their falling blossoms choked the fountains and make sweet perfume underfoot. The square was surrounded by elaborate mansions belonging to those too unimportant for land and titles but wealthy enough to awake each morning and gripe out their bedroom window at the goings-on of the king’s household.

The guards at the gate recognised James and stood aside for him, expressions inscrutable. He supposed they would all know that he was coming by now. Gossip was a favoured currency.

They rode to the stable, thick with animal stink. As they dismounted a page scurried up, bowing obsequiously.

‘Sir, welcome back to the capital. And may I say, you are looking very…’ the page flapped his mouth for a moment, taking in James’ weary expression and muddy clothes, ‘well-travelled?’

‘Is that a statement or a question?’

‘Sir?’

‘Never mind. Why are you here, bothering me, instead of far away bothering someone else?’

Peter snorted with laughter behind him and coughed to cover it up. James stoically kept his mouth in a straight line.

‘The King has requested your immediate presence in the throne room.’

‘And he will have it, immediately after my squire and I are bathed, fed and rested.’ He jerked his head at Peter and tried to get around the page.

‘Please Sir, I can’t tell him that.’

‘Why not?’

‘I- I think he’d behead me, Sir.’

Peter made a strangled sound and descended into an alarming coughing fit.

James sighed heavily. ‘Oh, very well then. Peter, you may go.’

Peter nodded and hurried off, still coughing. James sighed again and followed the page up the steps of the main palace, away from the Tower of Knights and the hot bath and soft bed therein.

The palace had been built long ago by a king whose zealotry was only marginally exceeded by his wealth. It was a ridiculous confection of turrets and spires, each striving to reach god through the belly of passing clouds. Brilliantly coloured mosaics depicting religious scenes wound randomly around both the interior and exterior. Many of them had been damaged or obliterated altogether by later rulers who followed different doctrines or who wished to make their own mark on the palace. Sensible kings and warmongering kings had added fortifications, guard towers and strong walls and drawbridges. Kings of peacetime and plenty had added elaborate gardens, fountains that tumbled from great heights, fantastic murals of precious stones, tapestries that shone with thread of gold and silver. It had become tradition for each ruler to try and make his mark on the building. What emerged was not a thing of beauty but something ridiculous, a child’s drawing of a castle that most referred to as the Patchwork Palace.

King Nicholas the Fury had made no changes to the palace’s exterior, and minimal changes to the inside. Abandoning the grandiose throne room with its ornate pillars, he’d had a little-used hall stripped back to bare stone. There were two large fireplaces on either side, and simple banners of blue silk hung from the walls, bearing the King’s insignia. The throne itself was black marble, smooth and plain, with a high back that tapered to an arch well over the king’s head. There was little space in the hall for courtiers to mill about and fawn.

The throne room was nearly empty as James entered. The fires were lit, giving strange shadows to the few present: a few guards, a whispering trio of lords, and Lady Natasha, one of the king’s closest advisors. She stood a little way behind the throne, still and silent enough to be almost invisible. If James did not always automatically look for her red hair when he was about the palace he might not have noticed her at all.

There was another here, who knelt before the throne. The man was fair-haired, well-built, and dressed in the blue of the King’s personal knights, though James did not recognise him. He stood as James approached, bowing deeply to King Nicholas, and turned to leave. Their eyes met for a fraction of a second and James felt his stomach clench and his breath catch in his throat. The man was beautiful. He had piercing blue eyes and a well-groomed beard. He smirked at James as he passed, nodding at him in a way that felt like both a dismissal and a challenge. _Prove yourself worthy of my time_.

James turned his head to watch him pass but did not break stride.

King Nicholas sat deep in his throne, face in shadow. He was clad in his usual black, with a short leather surcoat and breeches over a black woolen coat with a high, stiff collar. His crown was a simple circlet of gold set with blue sapphires. As James approached he leaned forward, and light glinted off the sapphires and off his bald head.

James began to bow from several paces away, and King Nicholas waved him forward with an impatient grunt. James knelt at his feet.

‘Let’s dispense with ceremony, shall we?’ King Nicholas rose, and the soft murmurs around the hall ceased altogether. ‘Come, Sir James. We have things to discuss away from prying eyes and ears.’

‘Yes, Your Majesty.’

He rose and fell into step behind King Nicholas as he left the throne room via a door at the back of the hall. Lady Natasha matched pace with him, a smile threatening to quirk her mouth.

‘I suppose you know exactly what’s going on,’ James whispered to her.

‘Of course.’

‘You’re going to make me find out all by myself though, aren’t you?’ She glanced at him from the corner of her eye and her mouth curled upward, just a little, just enough to be infuriating.

‘I hope you don’t object too strongly to being dragged about like this,’ King Nicholas said before James could snipe at her, ‘but things have changed since you’ve been away.’

‘I live to serve the throne, Your Majesty,’ James replied. ‘You may drag me wheresoever you please.’

They made their way up a narrow staircase to the King’s Tower.

‘I’ve known you since you were a page of thirteen, getting underfoot at jousts,’ Nicholas said, ‘and I know very well by now when you’re angry, James. You only ever grovel when you’re upset about something.’

‘Was I grovelling, Your Majesty?’ He clenched and unclenched his scarred fist. ‘I assure you, I only ever meant to put forth an appropriate level of respect and humility.’

Nicholas stopped, leaning against the wall. He turned and looked down on them, expression weary but affectionate. ‘I might be your king, but you may speak freely with me. I owe you that much. Especially with what I plan to ask of you.’

‘Are you hurt, Your Majesty?’ James asked softly.

‘Not here.’

Nicholas grimaced slightly then continued on up the stairs. He led them to a sparsely furnished room of generous size with a window in one wall that looked out to the sea. A servant was sweeping out the hearth and Nicholas dismissed him with the instruction to bring food and ale, then gestured for James and Natasha to sit. He sat opposite them at the long table, lowering himself stiffly into the chair. Just visible over his shoulder were the hazy smears of fishing boats out on the water and the specks that were gulls looking for an easy meal.

For a moment Nicholas closed his one good eye, leaning his head back and clutching his side. James was struck by how old the king looked, and vulnerable. He wasn’t sure he’d ever seen him with his guard so lowered. It was unnerving.

‘My King…’ James said softly.

‘’We don’t have a lot of time, James.’ King Nicholas’s eye flickered open and he sat upright, once again stern and imposing. ‘Someone wants me out of the way, and I need you to find them.’

‘Your Majesty, I-’

‘You will do what needs to be done. Not because your king commands it, but because _that is what you do_.’ He leaned forward, eye bright like a raven’s. ‘I know you question my orders, and I’m glad of it, but you have done things for me that no other would. You and Natasha are the only ones I trust.’

James felt rather than saw Natasha shift in her seat beside him, straightening her spine almost imperceptibly. Few would have seen it on her face, but he knew she was pleased.

There was a knock on the door and two servants entered, one bearing flagons of ale and the other a tray of sweetbreads, fruit and white rolls so fresh that steam still wafted off them. James watched the gulls in the bay as the meal was laid out. They were spiralling towards something in the water, so thick that they formed a cohesive black smudge. Whatever the subject of the feeding frenzy, James was sure that underneath the water must look the same. Tiny carnivorous fish must surely be forming a mirror swarm, stripping the flesh from whatever creature had expired in the blue waters.

The servants left the room and James removed his gloves to eat. He usually kept his left hand gloved at all times, but all present had seen the ropey pink scars that marked him from shoulder to fingertip.

King Nicholas ate little, talking while the others had their fill. ‘The line of succession has become much more complex. I have no sons, no immediate male heirs to speak of. Until recently, squabbles over who should inherit the throne have been relegated to back rooms and snide whispers. The fact that someone has made an attempt on my life means someone finally feels they have a strong enough claim, and they’re not going to wait for me to grow old to make it.’

‘Someone tried to kill you?’ James sat up a little stiffer in his chair. ‘Who? When?’

Nicholas waved a hand dismissively. ‘They did not try hard enough. I’m fine.’

‘Your Grace…’

‘ _I’m fine_. I do, however, insist that neither of you let it happen again.’ Nicholas’s mouth twitched like some part of it was remembering what a smile felt like. ‘I intend to die of old age, if I can.’

‘Why are they trying to kill you now?’ James asked. ‘Has a new heir appeared from somewhere?’

‘No one outside this room must know what I’m about to tell you.’ Nicholas watched them both, considering. ‘My sister has just given birth in secret. The child is a boy, my nephew, and I intend to pass the throne to him.’

A moment passed in silence. James watched Natasha from the corner of his eye; her expression remained passive, but there was a minute twitch in her jaw. He guessed she was annoyed not to have known of the pregnancy.

‘I will guard the boy with my life, if that is what you require,’ James said slowly, ‘though you know I would be better suited to hunting down those who would do him harm.’

‘I do know this.’ Nicholas was also watching Natasha. ‘He is well protected. I won’t say where, or by who, but he is safe.’

For a moment Natasha’s serene expression turned brittle. James couldn’t help but feel a little satisfied that she was not so closely trusted as she had thought.

‘I want you here, at my side, protecting me from harm,’ Nicholas said wryly, ‘and when you are not acting as my personal bodyguard, you will be rooting out the weeds that have grown up through my court.’

‘Weeds you allowed to grow,’ Natasha said, tone light and teasing but eyes penetrative. ‘What will they think, seeing you with a close personal guard all of a sudden?’

‘They will think I’ve grown paranoid in my old age.’

‘You _have_ grown paranoid in your old age,’ she reminded him.

‘With good reason. I was stabbed in my own palace not two months ago, and all your little spies have brought you no closer to finding out who did it.’

‘I’ve kept anyone else from finding out. I kept you alive. My king came to me, bleeding, and asked me to heal him without telling another soul, and here you are.’ Natasha looked at him with a cool, level expression. ‘I could continue to keep you alive if you told me everything.’

‘I have told you everything you need to know,’ Nicholas said sternly. Natasha inclined her head and was silent.

‘Go now, both of you. James, I expect you to report here at dawn tomorrow to begin your duties.’

‘Yes, My Liege.’

They rose. James pulled on his gloves as they left, flexing his fingers so the leather stretched and creaked over his knuckles. The stairwell was empty as they descended. Natasha made to brush past him, and James grabbed her arm.

‘What are you doing?’ she asked him, barely keeping the anger from her voice.

‘He trusts you, Natasha, as do I,’ Bucky replied, keeping his voice low, ‘but I need you to trust me in return.’

Her face settled into her usual infuriating smirk. ‘What are you expecting me to trust you with?’

‘Anything you feel I might need to keep our king alive.’

‘You mean if I hear anything interesting, you want me to whisper it in your ear?’ She smiled dangerously. ‘What will you give me in return?’

‘I’ll be at the king’s side, closer than you could ever be. If there is a detail that I feel you may be lacking…’

‘You wear a knight’s raiment, but at heart you are still a spy, aren’t you?’ She tapped his chest.

‘My spy’s heart is why the king asked for me, don’t forget.’

‘Oh, I wouldn’t dream of it.’

With a final dazzling smile she left him on the stair, feeling suddenly the exhaustion of a month’s riding all at once.


	2. The Witching Hour

Peter has been sound asleep and snoring on his cot when James had finally made it to their rooms. He’d stripped himself bare and laid on top of his own four-post bed, letting the chill air raise gooseflesh on his skin. Beneath him was a blanket sewn from rabbit skins, musty with disuse but soft. He pushed his fingers through the fur, felt how it rubbed against his spine and the back of his legs. James tried to focus on the feelings of fur and cold, to empty his mind of everything else, but his thoughts were muddy. The vulnerable look of King Nicholas’s face blurred with the faces of dying men on the battlefield, with Natasha’s smirk, with the face of the golden-haired man from the throne room. James had finally fallen into troubled sleep and dreams of bloodied fields and knives in the dark.

 

He awoke what felt like a very short while later, gasping and drenched in sweat. James rose, slipping on a pair of breeches, an undershirt and a leather vest. He clambered over Peter’s prostrate form, and slipped down the tower stairs. He judged it to be near three in the morning - the witching hour. The night hung suspended, dark and still. With only the stars and a rare finger of light from a distant window, James made his way to the practice yard. He had made the journey many times, on nights darker than this, and with a minimum of fumbling he acquired a sword from the racks and stripped to the waist. 

White clouds formed with each exhale, barely visible in the air in front of him. Cold made gooseflesh rise on his arms and chest. Breathing deeply, he swung the sword. He stepped, turned, swung again, feeling the weapon as an extension of his arm. He moved around the yard, sometimes fighting an invisible opponent, sometimes moving for movement’s sake. It was a dance, and violence was his unseen partner. James swung the sword until he couldn’t feel the cold, only the ache in his muscles and the rolling drops of sweat on his skin. 

Practicing his footwork, he handled the sword in a series of controlled arcs and imagined blocks. All he could hear was his own short breaths, the pounding of blood in his ears. Then, the screeching class of metal on metal, as his sword met another and was halted. James dropped back, surprised and suddenly alert. In the darkness, he could just make out the figure of a man.

‘Who goes there?’ James asked, voice less level than he would have liked. ‘Be you man, or phantom?’

‘Can a phantom carry steel?’ came the reply; a deep voice, and warm. 

‘I know not. Though if you are indeed a phantom, it stand to reason that they can, unless it was not another blade than answered mine just now.’ James kept his sword raised.

‘What else could it have been?’ the figure began to circle him, its own raised blade catching the reflections of the stars.

‘A trick, perhaps. Some devilry wrought to catch me unawares.’ 

‘I satisfy myself that I have caught you unawares, but I assure you I am no devil.’ The figure lowered its sword. James kept his raised, as the sound of flint scraped the air and a candle flared into life. 

James’s breath caught in his throat. The man from the throne room was before him, wearing scraps of plate armour over a surcoat of deepest blue. The buttery light caught on golden hair and sunkissed skin, shining in warm eyes. It reflected off his breastplate until the man was aglow, and he was golden, all golden. 

‘So you say, and yet surely I am bewitched,’ murmured James, then felt himself flush crimson. ‘Why are you here, at this hour?’

‘I could ask the same of you.’ The man smiled, and it was brighter than the flame. ‘Do you often fight phantoms in the dead of night?’

‘Aha! So you are a phantom.’ James took a step back, straightening his sword arm and pressing the tip of the blade to the man’s throat. ‘State your business, phantom. My patience grows thin.’ 

‘I am Sir Steven Rogers, newly appointed to the king’s personal guard,’ he replied, tone light and amused, ‘and my business is the same as yours.’

‘Do not presume to know my business,’ James hissed, sword steady. 

‘My apologies. I merely assumed that any man awake and active at this hour must have given up his chase of sleep, and be seeking less elusive distraction.’ Steve raised a hand, hesitantly at first, then pushed the blade gently downwards. ‘I would offer my blade in further opposition, but I can see I’ve disturbed you enough.’ 

He made to turn, and James reached out instinctively, hand stopping a hair’s breadth from Steve’s shoulder. ‘Wait.’

‘Yes?’

‘I was not made aware of your appointment. Who was responsible for this decision?’

‘Why, the king himself chose me personally.’ Steve smiled again, then he turned and departed. Clouds had covered the sky, and there was not a light left in all the world. 

  
  


After a time, James returned to his chambers. He woke Peter, who helped him into a suit of gleaming armour, with a new cloak of midnight blue. He made his way to the king’s chambers as the sky turned from ebony to pearly grey. 

There was a guard at the door to the king’s chambers. James faltered for a moment, but it was not Steve. 

‘Sir James,’ the man said in greeting, smile wide beneath his helm.

‘Sam.’ James smiled back; Sir Samuel Wilson was captain of the kingsguard, and a close friend. Sam was young and new to command, but loyal and highly skilled. He stood aside and let James pass. 

King Nicholas sat at the window, frowning over a parchment in the watery light of early morning. He looked to not have slept at all, though James was sure that even when freshly rolled out of bed the king would look sharp and present as ever. Still, there were candles on the table that had burned down to pools of wax, and books and scrolls lay in piles. He gave no acknowledgement of James’s presence beyond a slight inclination of the head, which may well have been in response to something on the parchment.

James conducted a sweep of the king’s rooms. All the windows opened to the sea, with a sheer drop to rocks far below. There were only two doors that James knew of: the one he had entered through, and a secret door concealed by a tapestry in the bedchamber, known only to the king and those assigned to his personal guard. James was sure Natasha would know of its existence, of course, and the thought made him smile. The hidden door led to a narrow staircase which led down to the bowels of the castle, with one exit concealed in the stables and another in a complex system of underground caves with numerous rumoured escape routes.

James pulled aside the tapestry and tested the handle of the door; it was firmly locked. He let the tapestry - a simple depiction of cornflowers on a grey field - fall back into place. Then he took his place near Nicholas, positioning himself between the king and the door, with as much of the room as possible in his sight line. 

Hours passed. As the sun rose, the clouds disappeared and the surface of the sea was turned to glittering diamonds and the walls of the patchwork palace glowed. Nicholas worked through a stack of parchments. Pages and errand-boys, squires and servants came and went, bearing books and scrolls and letters for perusal. When the sun had passed directly overhead and was just beginning the descending side of its arc, the king finally stretched and stood. 

James fell into step three paces behind him as they made their way to a stretch of battlement overlooking the city. A small wooden table and stool had been laid out with a simple meal of bread, wine and cold pheasant. King Nicholas sat as a page poured wine. He waved the boy off, leaving James and the king alone. 

‘Do you think they like me, down there?’ he asked, gesturing to the city below. 

‘Your Majesty?’ James responded, confused.

‘The people. Not the lords and ladies who hang about in every corner of this ridiculous palace, but the common people.’ Nicholas stood, leaning over the nearest crenel. ‘See those houses, down there? What do their residents think of their king?’

‘I had not thought you were so concerned with the thoughts of the common people, My Liege,’ James said, tone light. 

‘Indulge me, and speak freely.’

‘I am sure the people love their king.’ 

‘An obsequious answer, and likely a false one. Did I not instruct you to speak freely?’ Nicholas returned to his seat. ‘Some kings want to hear that they are loved, that they strike fear and adoration into the hearts of every man, woman and child. Do you think they fear and adore me?’

James turned the thought over in his mind. ‘I am not sure that the common people think of you a great deal, My Liege. Outside this city, the peasants toil for their lords, and for the good of their own kin. A king who does little to burden nor to alleviate the common people cannot factor much into the everyday thinking of every man, woman and child.’

‘Good answer,’ Nicholas said, smiling. ‘That is what every king should want; not glory, nor fear nor love, but to look after his subjects in ways they cannot be aware of. The good of the many, that is all that matters to me.’

‘How noble of you, My Liege.’ James gave a half-bow that walked a fine line between admiring and mocking. 

‘You doubt my intentions?’ Nicholas looked at him with something that threatened to be amusement.

‘I was but a child when you took the throne, Your Majesty, but in my time with you since I have come to learn a little of how you came to the position. I know it was neither a smooth nor linear ascent.’ He gave a more sincere inclination of the head. ‘With what I know of how hard you worked to gain the throne, and the things you have had me do in order to keep it… forgive me, but I cannot see how those things are possible if all you care about is, as you say, “the good of the many”.’

Nicholas regarded him for a long time in silence. ‘Do you think I deserve the throne, James?’

‘I- I think you  _ earned _ it, My Liege. Many who sit in it, are born to it, do not.’

‘No one does.’ 

‘Forgive me, My Liege, but why are you asking me these questions?’

‘You’re an honest man, beneath it all. I believe that you are also a loyal one, but whether you are loyal to me or to the throne I am not sure. I believe I know the answer, but…’ Nicholas shrugged. ‘Rarely are kingdoms ruled by the deserving. Come, I have a council meeting to attend, you’re to stand behind me and look menacing.’

‘With pleasure, Your Majesty.’

James flexed his scarred fingers and fell silent.

 

King Nicholas’s chosen room for council meetings was deep in the heart of the palace, far from windows and light spaces. James mused that the sovereign had an uncanny ability for finding the least ornamented chambers in the whole of the absurd structure. The council room was bare, grey stone, ornamented by a wooden frieze, about a metre in height, which ran along the middle of each wall. The frieze depicted romantic scenes of knights on noble quests, but were crudely carved. Torches which hung in heavy iron sconces from the walls and ceiling lit the room. In the torchlight, the friezes looked almost demonic, their gnarled faces seeming to move. Some manner of unseen flue channeled the smoke out of the chamber, but the room stunk always of fire and tallow. James suspected King Nicholas had chosen this room because the atmosphere was so unpleasant as to keep council meetings as short as possible. 

Lady Natasha sat to the right of the king’s chair, dressed in an ebony gown with a surcoat of black velvet. Her fiery hair was captured in a net of black pearls and a single ruby was pinned at her throat. She looked, as ever, beautiful and annoyingly smug. 

To the left of the king’s chair was Lord Alexander Pierce. While Natasha had the king’s close personal favour, Lord Pierce was his closest advisor in an official capacity, as well as an old friend. He wore a soft grey surcoat over a coat of duck’s egg blue. A gold pin in a twisting design held his rabbit fur cloak to his shoulders. 

Adjoining them at the table were Lord Anthony Stark, the king’s alchemist, dressed ostentatiously in crimson silks and a heavy gold chain; Commander James Rhodes, head of the city guard; Lord Phillip Coulson, who was in charge of the treasury; and Lady Maria Hill, the king’s advisor in diplomacy (an appointment James had never understood, as she had always struck him as less diplomatic than terrifyingly ruthless). The assembled council members paused their conversations and immediately rose as the King entered, all bowing deeply as though a giant hand had pushed them all forward at once. 

‘As you were,’ King Nicholas said with a wave of his hand. Even so, they waited until he was taking his own seat before they took theirs. 

James took up position a little way behind the king. From behind his visor, he regarded each of the council members in turn. Lady Natasha was aggravating, it was true, and full of secrets, but she loved her king. Lord Stark was also aggravating, and perhaps self-interested enough to want the throne, but James knew him to be a good man. Besides, despite his great personal wealth he had rejected the acquiring of lands and chose instead to live in a tower of the palace and tinker. Commander Rhodes was a close personal friend of Lord Stark’s, but his loyalty was to the throne above all else. Lord Coulson and Lady Hill both seemed to be secret-keepers, and James wasn’t sure he trusted either of them, but he didn’t believe they would harm the king. Indeed, given the not uncontroversial decision to appoint a woman to the king’s council, he was quite sure that Lady Hill at least had the entirety of the king’s trust. Lord Pierce and King Nicholas had known each other since they were both young men. They had fought together numerous times, and if rumours were true Lord Pierce had helped put Nicholas on the throne. He had been Nicholas’s first appointment as King. As far as James knew, the man was as noble and honourable as they came. 

King Nicholas trusted each person in that room implicitly. James saw no immediate reason to doubt any of them. Still, only he and Natasha knew of the assassination attempt and the king’s new nephew. 

James had killed a deer once, as a youth of about sixteen. He had shot it through a tangle of trees, his arrow going right through its eye. It was an impressive shot, and he had been rightly proud. The deer was a young doe, its flank still ghosted with dapples. When he removed the arrow from its skull it looked beautiful, peaceful, and he had marvelled at how such unsullied perfection could exist. When he’d cut the deer open, its insides were full of thick, black tumours. 

James thought of the deer as he looked around the table full of trustworthy people. Any one of them could be hiding a heart black with rot.

The conversation was growing heated. Nicholas was watching silently as Lord Stark, Lord Pierce and Commander Rhodes argued about the border disputes. Commander Rhodes seemed caught between the other two men.

‘We are stronger than them. Why keep drawing things out?’ Stark argued. 

‘They have not yet led a full-scale invasion against us,’ Pierce said quietly. ‘They’re an annoyance, nothing more.’

‘A drain on resources, more like,’ Stark replied, turning to Lord Coulson, ‘is that not so? Can we really justify sending troops to sort out these little squabbles when we could have the whole thing over so quickly?’

‘Ah, well-’ Coulson frowned, shuffling through a pile of papers, ‘yes, well, certainly it’s not ideal to be prolonging these engagements-’

‘See?’ Stark said, thumping the table.

‘- _ however _ ,’ Coulson continued, ‘the cost of a full-scale invasion, no matter how quickly we may predict it will be over, is quite prohibitive. I say this having just gone over the figures for the coming months and, well, I would recommend reevaluating the issue once winter has passed.’

‘Lord Coulson is afraid of the Witch Queen,’ Lady Hill said, tone disdainful but amused. ‘He fears all our troops will be turned into toads.’

‘Do you really think she has... powers?’ Pierce asked, rolling the word around in his mouth. ‘Do we have any reports that confirm these rumours, or are we to believe every fanciful peasant story?’

‘There are some who claim to have seen her do great and terrible things,’ Lady Natasha said, mouth quirking. ‘Of course, some also claim that the caverns beneath this palace are full of dragons.’

‘Then you do not believe these reports?’ Pierce asked. ‘I trust your judgement, my lady.’

‘I do not believe them, no. If they were true, her forces should have posed more of a threat.’ She made a small movement that was almost a stretch and somehow a dismissal. ‘Let our troops continue to defeat them. They are close enough to resources that they cannot stretch the palace coffers overly. Sooner or later the Witch Queen will grow bored.’ 

‘What if instead of leaving us alone from boredom, as you say, she instead decides to mount an invasion?’ Stark pushed. ‘Sir James, you have come to us more or less fresh from battle, what say you?’

James looked at him, startled. The eyes of all but King Nicholas were on him now. He removed his helm and cleared his throat awkwardly. 

‘Her forces are experienced, and fight with a belief in their cause,’ he said slowly, ‘and we are nearly evenly matched. But they do not, and never shall, have the numbers to threaten us in any serious way.’ 

‘Do you think we ought to be sending more troops?’ Pierce asked, pinning James with his gaze. ‘Do you agree with Stark, that we ought to eradicate the problem now?’

James squirmed under his gaze. ‘I am not a strategist, my lord.’

‘No? I have little patience for modesty,  _ Sir _ . Remember that I have been by our king’s side even as you have been. I know full well your exploits and abilities.’ He tilted his head. ‘Your opinion, Sir James. Please.’ 

‘Yes, my lord.’ James took a deep breath, held it, let it go. ‘A cornered animal will lash out if it senses a threat, real or no. I believe we can make a truce with the Queen, predicated on our withdrawing our troops from their borders.’

‘You want us to leave ourselves undefended?’Commander Rhodes said. 

‘She is a young queen, in a young kingdom, surrounded on all sides. I am sure she would welcome the opportunity to relocate her troops to borders with countries who actually want to invade hers.’ He glanced at Natasha, who was looking at him with an infuriating look of approval. ‘That being said, I agree with Lord Coulson that it would be foolish to attempt an invasion before winter’s end.’

King Nicholas shifted in his seat, nodding at Lord Coulson. ‘We will revisit the issue come spring. Lord Coulson, please tell me more about these figures you have mentioned.’

Lord Stark sat deep in his seat, obviously displeased but not willing to contest such a clear dismissal. James dithered for a moment, then slid his helm back on. Just before his vision was again partially obscured, he caught Lord Pierce looking at him with an impenetrable expression on his face. James felt suddenly as though his veins were filled with ice, and he shivered. When he looked back through the slit in his visor, Pierce was deeply engaged in conversation about grain stores and taxes.

The meeting wrapped up quickly after that, ending with Commander Rhodes offering to accompany Sir James and King Nicholas to meet the new appointments to the king’s guard. The wound their way out of the maze, breathing more deeply as the air got fresher. Soon they were making their way down an elaborate staircase with marble balustrades carved like trees to the training yard, where men in light armour were practicing archery. 

Sir Steven Rogers stood at the centre of the line of archers. His hair gleamed in the sunlight. James watched as he nocked and loosed five arrows in quick succession, each hitting the centre of the target where they trembled with interrupted momentum. Steve’s muscles bunched under his jerkin, the supple leather drawn taut over his arms and shoulders. The commander shouted a halt and the soldiers turned, and James felt himself flush at the sight of Steven’s grin. 

As they spotted the king the soldiers fell to their knees. He bade them rise, and Sir Samuel strode to greet them. He bowed again to the king, acknowledged Commander Rhodes, then grinned at James. 

‘I am pleased you are back among us,’ he said. ‘I am glad to see you.’

‘And I you,’ James replied, removing his helm. ‘I have missed fighting by your side.’

‘I hope you don’t miss it too much, if we have a fight here then we have not being doing our duty,’ Samuel said, inclining his head to King Nicholas. 

‘Sir James wishes to meet the new members of the king’s guard,’ Commander Rhodes prompted. 

‘Yes, of course.’ Samuel beckoned to him to follow. James glanced at Nicholas, who nodded. 

‘I had hoped to be able to approve any new candidates myself,’ James said quietly.

‘You’ve been in this role barely a day, James,’ Samuel replied, ‘there is no point to griping over appointments made before you were even back in the city.’

James was about to retort when Samuel beckoned to three men, one of them Sir Steven. They approached. Steve inclined his golden head to James, then fixed him with a dazzling smile. 

‘It is good to finally meet you in the full light of day, Sir,’ he said. James scowled at him and his smile dimmed a little. 

‘Don’t mind James,’ Samuel told the three assembled men, ‘he has always been inclined to black moods. I can assure you, he is as good a soldier as he is foul of temper.’

‘If only you were as good a soldier as you are disrespectful,’ James replied, and the men laughed awkwardly. He studiously avoided looking at Sir Steven. ‘Evidently you are all well skilled as archers, and I have no doubt of your physical qualifications.’

‘You want to know if we’re loyal to the crown,’ one of the men said. James looked at him expectantly. ‘Brock Rumlow, Sir.’

‘Do you know of any reason why I should doubt you?’ James asked. 

‘No, Sir. I am ready to give my life for my kingdom.’ His dark-eyed gaze was steady. 

‘What about you?’ James said, turning to the third man, stocky and fair-haired.

‘Clint Barton, Sir. Formerly of the city guard. Sir Samuel personally recommended me for the position.’ Barton had a bruise under one eye and looked somehow scruffy despite wearing the same uniform as the others.

‘Is this true?’ James asked skeptically, turning to Sam.

‘It is. He’s not much one for rules but his skills are unmatched.’ 

‘Your endorsement is enough for me.’ James smiled warmly at Clint. ‘Welcome.’

He turned, finally, to Steven, looking sternly into his eyes that were blue as the sky above them.

‘Who endorsed you for this position,  Sir?’ 

‘Rumlow and myself were both put forward by Lord Pierce,’ Steven replied. James thought he perhaps detected a hint of mockery in the man’s smile. ‘King Nicholas approved our appointment on the very day you arrived back in the capital.’

‘Lord Pierce, you say?’ James smiled tightly. ‘I will not dispute my lord’s judgement. I am assigning both of you to guarding the throne room. You will also, of course, accompany His Majesty on public outings along with the rest of his guard. Sam, I will entrust Barton’s position to you.’

Something resembling annoyance flashed in Steven’s eyes, but he nodded along with the other two. James dismissed them and returned to the king’s side.

‘Are you satisfied, Sir?’ Nicholas asked him with a knowing smile. ‘Do you support my judgement?’

‘I would never question your judgement, Your Majesty.’ 

‘We both know that is not quite the same thing,’ Nicholas murmured, looking at him sternly. ‘Would you question the judgement of Lord Pierce? Do you think I have anything to fear from these men?’

‘Not while I am at your side, Your Majesty.’ 

‘Why do I not find that reassuring?’ Nicholas made a dismissive gesture. ‘Come, it grows dark. I imagine you are weary and wanting your dinner.’

James escorted Nicholas back to his chambers, where he was dismissed early and another guard took over duties. He felt restless, like insects crawled beneath his skin. Instead of heading to the knight’s tower he found himself detouring to where Lady Natasha kept her chambers. 

He knocked at her door, feeling a little sheepish. Natasha, who chose not to keep many servants, answered the door herself. She was dressed in the same garments as before, but her hair was loose and tumbled to her waist in soft curls. She looked surprised to see him for the briefest of moments, then her mouth widened into a mocking smile.

‘You must have grown truly bored if you’re at my door so soon,’ she said. ‘I would have thought that boy that follows you around was capable of better conversation, but it seems you are quite desperate.’

James fought to urge to snipe at her. ‘I am here for your talents, not your wit.’

She grinned wider. ‘Why, it has been such a long time since you wanted me for my talents.’

‘Not- not those talents.’ He blushed furiously and she laughed. ‘I have important matters to discuss with you.’

‘I’m sure you do,’ she replied and stood aside so that he could enter. ‘I do believe you lost your sense of humour on a battlefield somewhere.’

‘Such a shame you still have yours.’ 

Natasha’s chambers were simply but tastefully decorated with delicate wooden furniture and sumptuous fabrics. She led James to a long table, on the wall behind which hung a tapestry depicting a tower emerging from a dark forest. The table bore a silver platter on which sat two cups and a pitcher of wine.

‘Expecting company?’ he asked.

‘One of my little games,’ she replied, pouring them each a drink, ‘if people think you are expecting them, then they think you know a great deal more than you do, and will reveal information they assume you already have.’

‘Simple, but cunning.’ He raised his cup to her.

‘All the best tricks are.’ She smiled her cats’ smile. ‘But I do not think you are here to learn spy tricks from me.’

‘I want to know if you think all who sit on the king’s council can be trusted.’ 

‘No, but I assume you mean in a more specific sense.’

‘Do you think any of them could have been involved in…’ he raised his eyebrows.

‘All of them could have been, of course,’ she said, regarding him over the rim of her cup, ‘but I suspect you have someone in particular that you wish to discuss.’

‘Two new members of the king’s personal guard were recommended by Lord Pierce,’ James said slowly. ‘It felt as though he were playing games today, but I know not to what end.’

‘Do you not think his recruits up to the task?’

‘I want to know, were there an assassin with a knife pointed at the throats of the king and Lord Pierce alike, who would they choose to save?’ He dragged a droplet of wine around the lip of his cup. 

‘The most faithful of men will betray everything for the right price,’ Natasha replied, ‘and the question you ought to be asking is, “who sent the assassin?”’

‘Then we’re right back where we started,’ he sighed. ‘I want-’

‘Yes?’

‘What do you know about him?’ James said suddenly, flushing slightly. ‘Sir Steven, I mean.’

Natasha gave him a curious look. ‘He arrived in the city a little before you were sent for. Whom he truly serves I know not, but it would seem from everything I have heard that he is a man who always does what he thinks is right.’

‘What sort of man does that make him, do you think?’

‘A dangerous one.’

‘And if he is loyal to the king?’

‘Then he is a dangerous man who is on our side.’ She smirked at him. ‘Why are you so interested in this man in particular?’

‘Something about him sticks in the mind, do you not think?’ he said nonchalantly. 

‘I do indeed. Many ladies about the palace do also.’ her smile widened. 

‘Have off with thee,’ James said, the colour in his cheeks rising. ‘You know what I meant.’

‘Better than you, I think.’ She made a show of yawning. ‘You had best be off. The hour grows late, and you know how people love to whisper.’

‘Aye, and how you love to listen.’ 

‘A lady must have something to occupy herself with.’

‘Have you tried weaving?’ 

‘Get out before I stick a needle in your eye.’

‘As my lady commands.’ He bowed mockingly and left. 


	3. First Blood

His footsteps echoed along the corridor. Every shadow seemed a looming assassin, every whisper of wind a hostile breath. James laughed softly to himself.

‘I have become quite paranoid,’ he said to the dark.

‘Why is that?’ the shadows replied, moving and coalescing into the form of a man.

James jumped back, a dagger in one hand and the other reaching for his sword. The man stepped into a circle of lamplight, hands raised placatingly. 

‘Sir Steven?’ James said, not lowering his dagger.

‘Apologies for startling you, Sir.’ He eyed the blade. ‘I assure you, I do not mean you harm.’

‘So you are not here to ambush me?’

‘Well, yes, but not with violence.’ Steve’s hands dropped to his sides. ‘You say you are paranoid, and clearly I do not have your trust. Is this why you will not let me guard our king?’

‘What are you talking about?’ He sheathed the dagger but his hand remained on his sword-hilt. ‘I have given you guard duty.’

‘You would have me stand at the back of the throne room, where I am of little more use than a standard-bearer,’ Steve said. ‘I took this post because I am willing to lay down my life for what is right, not to be so far from the king as to be useless.’

‘And what would you prefer? To be by the king’s side, day and night, constantly fighting threat after threat?’ James realised he was being somewhat hypocritical, but he felt his resolve grow as he said, ‘if you are bored then that is good, because it means the king is safe. You should not wish for violence.’

‘I want to serve, I-’ he rubbed a hand through his beard. ‘Will you not give a chance?’

‘I am not inclined towards putting my king’s life in the hands of chance,’ James retorted. Steve looked crestfallen. ‘You must earn your place. Earn my trust.’

‘I have earned the king’s trust. Is that not enough? Do you not trust his judgement?’ 

His expression was disarmingly earnest, but James could hear the trap in his words. He ran his tongue over his teeth, inhaling deeply and willing down the sudden spike of anger that flared in his chest. King Nicholas had asked him the same thing, but they had known each other a long time, and a king could ask what questions he liked. James barely knew this man.

‘Mind your words, Sir,’ he said slowly, ‘lest I find in them an accusation.’

Steve’s eyes burned brightly in the dim light. ‘I have the personal endorsement of the king’s highest advisor and was chosen by the king himself. What right have you to question them?’ 

James’s gloved fist connected with Steve’s jaw, sending him reeling backwards. Blood sprang from his split lip and the long curve where the edge of James’s demi-gauntlet had cut into his face. For a long moment the only sound was the sputtering lamps, James’s heavy breathing, and blood dripping to the flagstones. Then Steve launched forward, slamming his shoulder into James’s chest and knocking him out of the circle of light. James twisted and Steve flailed for a moment but recovered, aiming an elbow at James’s face. It caught him in the chin and his head snapped back, stars bursting in his vision. He shook his head and blinked rapidly, raising his arm just in time to block Steve’s fist with his gauntlet. Steve yelped in pain and surprise, and James hit him square on the nose. He fell to the ground, blood streaming down his face, making his beard look black in the dim light. Cursing, he tried to push himself upwards.

James drew his sword and placed the tip under Steve’s chin. Steve stopped moving immediately. He raised his chin, not defiant but submissive, and swallowed. His Adam’s apple bobbed against the blade. 

‘I yield,’ he said softly. 

‘I should kill you,’ James replied, voice low and laboured. ‘You do not want to follow orders, you accuse me of treason, you attack me-’

‘You hit me first,  _ Sir _ ,’ Steve said, voice thick with blood and pain. His expression was impossible to read. 

James lifted the sword, forcing Steve’s chin higher. ‘I have earned the king’s trust. Over  _ years _ , I have earned it. If I killed you, he would not question me.’ 

‘So kill me.’ 

They stood like that for what seemed a lifetime. Steve’s eyes were two bright spots in the dark, reflecting the lamplight, and James stared at them like they were the only stars he had ever seen. He had always fought as though the sword was an extension of his arm, and so now it was not steel but his own flesh that raised Steve’s chin, the way someone might tilt their lover’s face upward for a kiss. 

Finally he lowered his sword and extended a hand.

Steve took it, allowing himself to be pulled to his feet. Out of the shadows he looked a mess, his face pulpy and wet. James held his wrist still, pulling him close until he could smell the metallic tang of blood. 

‘You will keep to the role I have assigned you. Tell no one what has transpired here tonight. Give any hint, any sign at all of insubordination, and I will not hesitate again.’ He dropped Steve’s arm. ‘Earn your place, Sir.’

Steve nodded. James stared at him, waiting, and he turned and walked away. 

 

James’s mind churned as he walked up the stairs to his chambers. The fight had been over in seconds, but his body ached as though he had been in battle. When he had first come into the service of King Nicholas the Fury, there had been many times when he had stood over a man in the dark like that, men who had never seen another dawn. He had been the blade in the dark, no matter that Nicholas had told him he was a shield that protected the kingdom. All he did was in defense of the throne, yes, but James was a weapon. He was a monster, but King Nicholas held his leash. Animals could sense threats their masters could not. That was why he was so fixated on Steve, he was sure of it. 

An image burst into his brain with white heat, of Steve with his chin raised and throat bared to him. It melted together with the smile he had given in the training yard.  _ A smile like that should not be given out so carelessly _ , James thought wildly. 

 

Peter was reading by the fire when he entered. 

‘Lord Stark has lent me some alchemical texts!’ he announced happily, his face falling as he took in James’s appearance. ‘Sir? What on earth has happened?’

‘Nothing,’ James said dismissively. He scratched his chin as though that could hide the bruise that was surely now forming. 

‘Did you fall again?’ Peter asked seriously.

‘I swear on all that is holy, Peter-’

‘Sir, that’s a blasphemy!’ he looked shocked.

‘And I will blaspheme again if you do not leave me in peace,’ James replied, corners of his mouth twitching. 

‘Why Sir, I am shocked. Nay, appalled.’ Peter shook his head. ‘You should be grateful that God seeks to test you only through astounding clumsiness, and not-’

‘Right, that’s it,’ James said huffily. ‘Fetch me some food and get out of my sight, you ungrateful cur.’

They grinned at each other. James sank into a chair by the fire while Peter bustled around him. He was only vaguely aware of Peter removing his armour as his eyelids drooped and he fell into dreams in which a golden man ran a sword through him, again and again and again. 

 

Autumn waned, and winter crept its brittle fingers ever closer. Each morning the fields beyond the city walls glimmered with a fine frost. The palace was busy with the to-ing and fro-ing of deliveries of grain and salted meats, root vegetables and wine barrels. The city market was cacophonous with hawkers trying to make a last bit of coin before the leaner months. Blacksmiths and craftsmen were busy at work preparing armour and goods for the festival that marked the beginning of winter. The days grew swiftly shorter, and yet to James each one seemed to stretch on forever.

James often ate with the other members of the kingsguard at one of the long tables in the palace’s vast dining hall. One of the few activities King Nicholas could not find a small, undecorated space for, the dining hall was lavishly tiled with friezes depicting various scenes of religious piety. Windows set high in the walls let in shafts of sunlight, and iron basins filled with oil and suspended from the ceiling lit the evenings. There were large fires set at intervals along each wall, and on each fire was a cauldron filled with broth, or a carcass slow-roasting and dripping fat hissing onto the coals. Young squires and unoccupied servants would sit at the edge of the fire, catching the drippings with scraps of bread. It was a space riotous with colour and noise. King Nicholas would sit alone on a raised dais at one end of the chamber, reading from thick tomes or else staring stonily out at those assembled. Sometimes, especially at evening meal, minstrels would perform. Lord Stark often gave demonstrations of alchemy, creating bright showers of sparks or vanishing small trinkets. 

He had confessed once to James, who had sat stony-faced through a private demonstration for himself and Peter, that the whole thing was in fact a crock and that the church would have him drawn and quartered if they knew what he was truly working on. 

‘ _ Science _ , Sir. These priests, they would have us terrified of the natural world instead of seeking to understand it.’ His eyes had been feverish as he’d explained. ‘But King Nicholas supports my work. He knows I am making great discoveries. I do not accept it is a blasphemy to seek knowledge!’

At the word ‘blasphemy’ both James and Peter had laughed and tried to cover it up with coughing, a move which saw them both subjected to several minutes of Lord Stark peering down their throats and muttering about ‘the great miracle of medicine’. 

Sir Steven and Brock Rumlow seemed always close companions in the dining hall. They got on well with the others, made close companions easily, but were together more often than apart. James found himself thinking of Rumlow with immense dislike almost as much as he thought of Steve. And he did think of Steve, found his eyes trained often on the crown of his golden head or on his long, slender hands. His broken nose had healed straighter than strictly seemed fair. As though that weren’t bad enough, James would often catch Steve’s eyes on him as well, something in them which he could never quite comprehend. 

He felt himself growing paranoid, suspecting everyone he came across, but the autumn days stretched onwards and no further attempt upon the king’s life was made. The secret of the king’s nephew seemed safe. James almost willed himself to believe that the throne was again secure. 


	4. The Golden Boy

The dawn of the winter festival was crisp and clear. There was a stout breeze, enough to send banners flapping proudly. As the procession rode out the sky turned from buttery yellow to eggshell blue, with barely a wisp of cloud. Frost coated each blade of grass, each low shrub and tender rosehip so that all the world seemed made of shimmering crystal. It crunched beneath foot and hoof, becoming so much mud in their wake. The procession wended its way from the patchwork palace out of the walls of the city, across the width of cleared lands and down the forest road. 

A wide semi-circle of tents stood facing the trees, their backs to the moor. Some had been dyed the colours of autumn leaves, others the disparate greys of winter skies. The country seemed reluctant to give into winter and, though many of the trees were already quite bare the forest still seemed edged in copper and gold. The moor itself was grey, blurring to bruise-purple in the distance. Several bonfires were being built of fragrant gorse and apple wood, ready for the evening. The KIng’s pavillion rose up from the centre of the half-ring of tents. It alone was made not from coloured silks but grey animal hides and hung about with banners of midnight blue. The festival was an opportunity for all to show of their wealth and skill, and even those members of the city guard who could afford it were out of uniform and sporting bright new helms and breastplates. A working forge was set up, the air around it shimmering with heat, and the air rang with the sound of hammer on anvil. For now, the blacksmiths were merely creating trinkets to demonstrate their skill, but once the tourney began they would be hammering out dents in armour and sundry other bits of busywork. 

James was to stay by Nicholas’s side for most of the festival, guarding him closely from the excited crowd, but he was to compete in the guard’s melee. He had a new suit of armour, dark and deadly, over a new midnight surcoat. Whispers radiated outwards wherever he walked. He knew many of the peasant rumours: that he was the king’s assassin, that he was disfigured, one-armed, ruthless and a monster. These rumours kept the crowds back, meant the king got a wide berth as long as James stood by his side, and so did not bother him. But the whispers of the lords and ladies, of the fresh-anointed knights who had never seen him with his sword drawn, they could prove more deadly. They were the rumours that said he was weak, that he had been banished for a great failure, that the injury which made him hide his left hand meant he could no longer pose a threat to any worthy opponent. He watched each fight with dispassionate coldness, analysing each fighter, laying out step by step in his mind how he could overcome them all. He itched to join them. The time of the melee could not come soon enough.

Finally, just as the sun had reached its zenith and begun its slow descent, James was summoned to join the other competitors. He was replaced at his post by Sir Samuel and Brock Rumlow. 

There were thirty other competitors, from both the kings’ and city guard. The kingsguard being lesser in number, it had been determined that the opposing sides be selected at random. Each man was given a blunted sword and a wooden shield painted either black or white to determine their team. They all began the melee helmed, weapons sheathed, in two rows before the stands. James’s shield was black. He recognised a few of the competitors by their armour, others by their distinctive stance. He knew he would recognise others by their fighting style. 

The earth beneath their feet was already a mess of mud and clods of dirt from the previous bouts. The crowd which lined the stands were like so many brightly coloured birds in the fine raiment, squawking and jeering hungrily. The sun was still high in the sky, but could be used to a fighter’s advantage if kept behind them. All were fighting in full plate. Though every face was hidden, James felt eyes upon him. 

The trumpet sounded. Some men yelled ‘for the king!’ as they charged, but James and a few others merely snarled or screamed gutturally. 

Almost immediately James found himself facing two opponents, working in unison against him. They mirrored each others moves, but one was faster. He hammered blows down on the faster one, forcing them on the defensive, breaking the pair’s rhythm, then spun suddenly and cracked his sword hilt into the slower one’s helm. It was ill-fitting and ill-fastened, and James felt it thud backwards into the man’s face. He stumbled back, blood spraying through the gaps in his visor. Another black-shielded fighter barrelled into him, and James was down to one opponent. The man with the white shield was already getting sloppy, clearly perturbed at his strategy being so quickly undermined. He was still fast, but he was fighting angry now. In a few brief strokes, James cut him down, and turned to look for the next fight. 

James found himself in a kind of funnel, soldiers bearing white shields ignoring closer opponents to try and take him on. He was soon flanked by four or five others he knew to be from the kingsguard, who had formed up instinctively as though he were their monarch. He took down nearly as many opponents as the lot of them combined, but still the tide of white shields pushed towards him. He could sense in their midst a single fighter, someone who had been trying to get to him from the beginning. James could feel the battle flowing toward him, could feel how the fighter moved toward him the way a spider feels the vibrations when prey lands in its web. He moved forward through the bodies and his flank drew back. He pushed people aside, blocking the blades that came at him. Then a sword met his and suddenly he was forced to stand and fight. This was him, James’s true opponent, and the man used his shield as savagely as his sword. 

The crush of other fighters in the melee forced them close together. Their swords screeched, blades meeting almost at the hilt, and James could just make out a pair of blue eyes behind the visor. Something around them changed, a lessening of pressure, and the other man stepped back suddenly then surged forward, driving the edge of his shield into James’s chin. He spat blood through his visor, brought his sword up, blocked, blocked again. James ducked, threw another fighter into the man’s path, got the sun behind him in the few brief seconds it took his opponent to take the other fighter down. 

They faced each other again, clashed, drew back, this time neither of them gaining or losing ground. The rest of the fighters fell away. James didn’t know if they were all defeated or merely giving the two of them space for their dance. It didn’t matter to him. 

James tried a feint, failed, tried another and managed to knock his opponent back. They traded blow after blow. He was using his shield more like a weapon too now, mirroring the other man’s moves, and he slammed it into his face before he could regain his balance. The man staggered several paces and wrenched his helmet off. James moved to hit him again but he looked up and it was Steve. 

Of course it was him. James faltered for just a moment and Steve sprung at him with a yell. He stepped back, blocked badly, felt pain shoot up his left arm. He stopped another blow, better this time, and was able to trade back with one of his own. They circled each other. Steve’s cheek was bleeding. His gold hair was matted with sweat. James reached up and pulled off his own helmet, throwing it to the ground. The crowd was a distant roar behind them.  Steve set his jaw, brows pulled low over his eyes, and leaped forward.

The plate barely seemed to slow him down as he jumped, slamming into James with shield and shoulder. James fell to the ground, rolled just in time to avoid a sword to the head, stopped another swipe while on his knees. Steve pressed down on him, not letting him up, but he blocked every blow. They snarled at each other, spitting blood, sweat flying from the ends of their hair.

Their swords met and Steve leaned in, putting all his weight behind the attack. James clenched his teeth, every muscle straining, both blades a hair’s breadth from his face.

‘If I defeat you, will you yield?’ Steve asked him, voice quiet but surprisingly clear above the shriek of metal and screams from the crowd. 

‘Never,’ James replied, and pushed back with a sudden surge of strength.

Steve staggered, and he was able to regain his feet. He lunged forward once, twice, and Steve lost his sword but came back swinging the shield. James swung his sword and it buried itself in the white-painted wood. Steve yelled in pain and lashed out with a gauntleted fist, catching James in the jaw. He staggered back, letting go of his sword. Steve wrenched it out of the shield, caught James in the leg, made a thrust that he blocked, caught him in the leg again, then the hip, then the shoulder. James caught Steve’s wrist as he fell, twisted it, managed to force the sword from his hand but Steve grabbed his shield and wrenched it away. Steve slammed his weight into James’s chest, knocking the breath out of him, and raised the shield high. 

They locked eyes. The shield hung poised above them. Steve looked uncertain, reluctant, even. 

‘Yield,’ he mouthed.

James shook his head. He raised his hand, not sure what he was reaching for. He was ready. He was calm. ‘Do it.’

‘Enough!’ King Nicholas’s voice rang out. ‘We have our champion, that is clear. No lives need be lost.’

Steve threw the shield aside and stood. He extended a hand to James, who took it, after a moment. He kept his grasp of Steve’s hand and thrust it skyward in a victor’s stance. 

‘Your champion!’ He yelled to the crowd. They cheered for the golden boy, the handsome victor and hero who had defeated the king’s skulking pet. James melted away, letting Sir Steven have his moment.

 

James stood in one of the healing tents, naked to the waist, washing off the blood. He had sent Peter away as soon as the boy had stripped him of his armour. Something burned hot within him, a feeling he knew as shame, and he felt he could not stand to be looked upon. 

There was a sound behind him, and he turned. Steve stood there, in leather hose and crimson gambeson. He was clutching his shield arm and the side of his face was purple with bruising. The sinking sun glowed orange through the side of the tent and made him seem aflame. He was staring at James’s chest, at where the mottled scarring extended past his shoulder. James felt the shame and anger rise in him like gorge and turned back to the ewer and basin. 

He felt Steve come up beside him, saw him sit from the corner of his eye.

‘You look far less the worse for wear than I had feared,’ Steve said good-naturedly. When James gave no response, he pressed, ‘I am sure no one could say the same for me. Indeed, I am beginning to suspect you of taking umbrage with my face, given this is now the second time you have so marred it.’

‘It is not your face I have a problem with,’ James mumbled. 

‘I would not have thought you so bitter in defeat,’ Steve said, staring again at the scarring that marked James so vividly. 

‘Weave a tapestry, that you might have it always.’ James reached for his discarded shirt and Steve grabbed his wrist. 

‘I’m sorry. I did not mean to stare.’ He continued to stare, eyes boring into the back of James’s hand. He looked as though he were struggling with something. ‘Why did you not yield?’ he finally said, voice barely above a whisper.

‘Why did you hesitate?’ James shot back, yanking his hand away. ‘You sought me out from the beginning. Was your goal not to kill me, in the end?’

Steve looked up at him, expression miserable. ‘That is what you wanted, that night. I yielded to you, and still you wanted me upon your sword.’

James swallowed. ‘Can you not see the position you have put me in?’ 

‘By defeating you?’ he said stonily.

‘Yes. I am meant to be the king’s closest protector. If I am weak-’ 

‘I am also of the kingsguard. Is that not a show of our strength?’ He turned his face to the light so that James could see the crust of blood upon it, the discoloured and swollen skin. ‘Will they truly say you are weak, when they saw how close I came to defeat? When they see your spiteful treatment of my face?’

‘ _ I _ say I am weak,’ James hissed through clenched teeth. ‘You make me weak, Sir, until  I feel I cannot do my duty.’

‘Why did you hesitate, then? You could have killed me, that night.’

‘Why did  _ you _ ?’ James sunk to his knees before Steve and grabbed his injured arm. Steve gasped in pain as James forced his hand to his throat. ‘Take my life and end my torment.’

‘What of your oath? What of your king?’ Steve said softly. 

‘I cannot protect him when murderers hide in shadows and I think only of the light.’ Tears sprung into his eyes. ‘Please.’

Steve looked confused, then pained, like knives were twisting inside him. With his free hand he reached up and, with the pad of his thumb, wiped away the tear that had spilled onto James’s cheek. He leaned forward and softly, so softly, pressed his lips to where the tear had been. He kissed James on the corner of his mouth, then his lips, soft then hard then soft again. The world seemed to melt away.

 


	5. The Serpent

A scream rent the air, short and jagged. James jerked back, stumbling to his feet. Outside the soft sunset world of the tent were sounds of chaos. Steve and James looked at each other. 

‘The king,’ James gasped.

‘Your sword,’ Steve said, all efficiency, as James hurriedly pulled on his mail and gambeson. 

‘I don’t have it,’ he replied. ‘My squire…’

‘Take this.’ Steve pulled a dagger off his belt and handed it over.

They dashed out of the tent together, fighting through the panicking crowd.

‘Make way! Make way for the kingsguard!’ James bellowed, shouldering people out of the way. 

The king’s dais was enveloped in disorder. Guards were rushing in every direction, seemingly unclear on whether they were to clear the area or prevent people from leaving. There were drawn swords everywhere. Anyone who had not been sitting near the dais was running, and there was risk of stampede. And still, James could not set eyes upon the king. 

Guards parted to let them through. The rabble moved back from the king’s chair long enough that James could see the blood splashed across the blue cushions, but King Nicholas was not in it. His stomach dropped and red crept across his vision. He breathed deeply, looking for a trusted face. Brock Rumlow stepped in front of him. 

‘I’ve been looking for you,’ he said. ‘An assassin sent by the witch has attacked the king.’

‘Is he alive? Do you have the assassin?’ Steve asked.

‘The assassin escaped.’ Brock gestured to the panicking crowd. ‘Got away in all this.’

‘You were assigned to protect the king,’ James said angrily. ‘Why did you not do your duty?’

‘And where were you,  _ Sir _ ?’ he asked, tone mocking.

‘Where is the  _ king _ , Rumlow?’ James replied, gritting his teeth.

‘You’re his personal guard, you tell me.’ Brock glanced lazily at Steve, running his tongue along his teeth. ‘A little distracted from your duties, Sir?’

Steve grabbed him by the shoulders and shoved him into the side of a tent. Brock stumbled, becoming briefly tangled in the canvas. He glared at Steve, expression angry and confused. 

‘We don’t have time for this!’ James cried.

‘Brock, find Sir James’s squire. Tell him to bring his sword,’ Steve said.

Brock stood awkwardly. He and Steve stared at each other, making some silent communication that James could not comprehend. Finally Brock nodded and jogged off. James looked at Steve warily.

‘He was assigned to guard the king. This happened under his watch. Why did you send him away?’ His eyes searched Steve’s.

‘Why did you let me?’ His expression was guarded, defensive, and James felt as though his stomach dropped another inch. The places where Steve has kissed him burned as though there were red-hot pokers pressing into his flesh. 

‘Sir!’ a female voice called. James felt a hand on his arm and made to push it off before he saw that it belonged to Lady Hill. 

‘My lady! Do you know-’

‘He’s this way, with Sir Samuel and Lady Natasha.’ She pulled him away from the tents, into the trees. James glanced behind to make sure Steve still followed. He did, expression stony and inscrutable.

‘’Is he-’ 

‘Not yet.’ 

‘What-’

‘Soon. Not here.’

They went thicker into the trees. The sounds of the tourney faded away. It occured to James that he did not trust either of the people he was with. This could be a trap, or a way to lead him far away from his dying king so that someone could come in and finish the job. He carried only a dagger, and the man whose footsteps fell behind him had a sword. 

There were drops of blood on the carpet of mouldering leaves, crimson against burnt sienna and gold. James could hear heavy breathing and low murmurs. They rounded a thick trunk and there was the king, leaning against an oak, shirt open and covered in blood. Lady Natasha crouched beside him, binding his torso in strips of cloth torn from her skirts. Sir Samuel stood to attention. He raised his sword when he heard them approach. 

‘James.’ He kept the sword raised and pointing it at Steve. ‘Do you trust him?’ 

‘No,’ James said truthfully, ‘though I wish I could.’

‘Then do not come closer,’ Samuel said to Steve. 

James turned to look at Steve. His expression was crestfallen, but he nodded. 

‘What happened, Sam?  _ How _ did this happen?’ James looked past his friend to the king, staring at the black spot where blood was seeping through the bandages. ‘Brock Rumlow said it was an assassin sent by the Witch Queen.’

‘I have no knowledge of where the assassin came from, or how Rumlow would come to know this,’ Sam replied, expression troubled. ‘It all happened so quickly. The king stood to make a pronouncement, he seemed to trip, then there was blood…’ 

‘Was there a blade?’ 

Maria pulled a short dagger from her sleeve and handed it to him. It was sticky with blood. James held it gingerly, examining the design. The blade was finely made, thin and sharp, but the handle was crudely wrapped in leather. A copper charm was tied to it with a thong, bearing a strange symbol. 

‘Did Rumlow see this blade?’ James asked, rubbing the symbol. It was shaped like a strange M or a stylised helm. 

‘Not to my knowledge. Certainly not close enough to have looked at it with any great attention,’ Maria said, ‘though the symbol does belong to the Witch Queen. They say it is the battle-crown she wears.’

James took the dagger Steve had given him and used it to pick at the edge of the leather wrapping. It fell away quickly, revealing a handle of carved bone. He traced the design with his thumb: a leviathan with a human skull, suckered arms wrapping around themselves in an elaborate pattern. Steve hissed sharply.

‘And this symbol?’ He handed it to Maria.

‘I do not recognise it,’ she said. ‘Likely it is mere ornamentation, though it ought to make the blade’s owner easier to find.’

‘Sir Steven?’ James looked at Steve, who avoided his eyes.

‘I have not seen such a thing before,’ he said. 

‘Very well.’ James sighed. ‘We need to get His Majesty somewhere safe.’

‘I do not know that it would be safe to move him,’ Maria said tightly. 

‘Let me see him.’ 

James moved forward slowly, crouching beside Nicholas. The King’s face was ashen and his eyes were full of pain, but he looked at James with recognition. 

‘It was the same one, James, I’m sure of it,’ he said. ‘He stabbed me in the same place.’

‘He failed to kill you the first time, my king. Will you let him succeed now?’ James said fiercely.

‘I have no plan to go anywhere, don’t you worry,’ Nicholas replied. There was blood in his teeth. 

‘James.’ Sam’s voice was sharp. James snapped his head around.

‘What is it?’ 

‘Hooves. We need to get him away from here.’ 

‘There’s a tunnel,’ Natasha said, speaking for the first time since James had arrived. Her tone was tight, professional. ‘That way, through a ring of stones. It will take you to the caves under the keep.’

Nicholas pushed himself unsteadily to his feet. He pulled his coat on awkwardly. ‘Sir Samuel, you should go back. Make sure Commander Rhodes has the guard in hand.’

‘My King-’

‘Your king is giving you an order, Sir. Ladies, go with him, please.’ He grasped Natasha’s shoulder with bloody fingers. ‘I owe you my life yet again, my lady, and yet you know I must now ask more of you.’

‘Yes, Your Majesty.’ She took his hand and kissed it. ‘I will meet you in the caves.’

‘Quickly, now. Sir Steven, lend James your sword and me your arm.’ Nicholas beckoned. The others all stood for a moment, frozen in uncertainty, then Sam stood aside and Steve rushed forward. James took the proffered weapon and the pair of them helped their sovereign in the direction Natasha had indicated.

They came quickly upon a low wall of crumbling stone, mottled grey and green with lichen. There were fewer trees here, and the sky was wide and empty above them, shot through with red and orange. Nicholas leaned heavily upon Steve while James searched through the leaves for an entrance to the tunnel. A shout came suddenly through the trees, and the three of them ducked down behind the wall. 

Two male voices sounded a little distance away, raised and combative. James inched his hands through the muck, finally stubbing his fingers on what felt like rotting planks. He brushed the leaf matter aside, revealing a trapdoor set with a thick iron ring. He pulled at it, but the door would not move. James locked eyes with Steve, pleading for assistance, but the arm Steve was not using to support Nicholas was still clutched to his side in injury. 

The voices grew briefly louder, then there was the sound of hoofbeats receding. James waited a moment, then knelt and slammed the sword hilt into the planks. They splintered and he cleared them away, revealing a staircase leading down into darkness. 

The journey was agonisingly slow. The sunlight had disappeared by the time they reached the level floor of the tunnel. The walls were narrow, wide enough only for single file, so Nicholas leaned against the wall as they walked. Everything felt to be made of the same crumbling stone as the wall outside, and all was thick with damp. The floor was level, occasionally sloping upward or downward, but occasionally they found themselves tripping over strange subterranean growths. Fungi grew thick from crevices in the stonework, soft like dead flesh and stinking. Rodents scuttled by, unseen, a brief weight across their toes. The only noises were rat-squeaks and wall-drips, their own shuffling footfalls and the king’s laboured breathing. They stopped often. 

After many hours the tunnel began to slope steadily upwards. It finally opened up to a wide cave. There was light here, weak and silvery, as though the moon were shining upon them through some unseen shaft high above. The man-made stonework disappeared here, making way for the beauty and craft of nature. It caught on the surface of a small underground lake, reflecting and dancing off the edges of crystalline rock formations. Stalactites and stalagmites twisted from the floor and ceiling, some kissing, some hanging or crouching like half-carved grotesqueries.  

‘I must rest,’ Nicholas said, voice thin. 

Even in the dim light James could see that Nicholas was very weak. His eyes would barely open, and the front of his coat was stiff and dark. They laid him upon an outcrop of rock, and he lay so still it seemed as though death had come for him already.

‘I failed you,’ James said softly. 

‘I’m not dead yet,’ Nicholas wheezed. ‘Natasha will come for me. She will heal me.’

‘Your Majesty…’ he looked at the pool of dried blood, black in the moonlight.

Nicholas reached out and took his hand, holding the scars up to the light.

‘You have never failed me, James. Not once.’ He met his eyes, expression stern. ‘I trust you with my life.’

James turned to Steve. ‘You have to find Natasha, tell her where we are.’

‘I- I do not know the way.’ Steve shifted uncomfortably. His side was crusted in the king’s blood.

‘Head up, call her name. She will find you.’

‘I wish to stay by my king, to protect him. That is the oath I swore.’

‘If you wish to protect him, you will find Lady Natasha.’ James rose. ‘Why will you not do this?’

Steve looked anguished, his gaze fixed on the sword at James’s side. ‘You know the way better than I. Will you not go, and leave the king in my care? Do you not trust me, still?’

James rested his hand on the sword hilt. ‘You give me cause not to trust you. Why do you so wish for me to leave?’

‘I only wish to do the right thing, James. Please.’ His gaze flicked from Nicholas to James restlessly. ‘Go and find the Lady.’

‘Sir.’ James half-drew the sword. ‘I do not desire to kill you.’

‘What  _ do _ you desire?’ Steve met his eyes then, and his expression was filled with torment. 

‘Always, you ask me questions, as though you see some conflict in me,’ James said, voice breaking, ‘and yet I see it is in you that there is struggle. You took a vow to protect your king. You swore to me that you wanted only to do your duty. Is this not your king? Is this not your duty?’

‘Do it, if you are not a coward,’ Nicholas said, raising himself up on his elbows. ‘Wait not for life to leave me, but take it yourself. Am I wrong to think  _ that _ is the duty you have been given? Did you not try once before?’

‘I never,’ Steve replied, voice small in the vast space.

‘Whom do you serve,  _ Sir _ ?’ Nicholas spat at him. He stood frozen, his eyes fixed on James’s face.

‘Answer him.’ James spoke with steady finality, but his hand shook at his side.

Steve howled and reached behind his back. Lifting his gambeson, he withdrew a hidden dagger and threw it to the ground. James glanced at it; he did not need to look closely to know what it was. In the twinkling light the tentacles seemed almost to move. 

‘Why?’ James asked. 

‘I was told he was not the true king, that a just and honest ruler would take his place.’ Steve stared at Nicholas then, and his eyes flashed with anger. ‘I was told of the things he did to get the throne, and to keep it. This is right, James.’

‘Will you kill me, then?’ James raised his hands submissively. ‘I was the hand in the dark, the dagger by which King Nicholas held the throne. Will you kill me, and call it right?’

Steve took two strides forward and crushed their mouths together. James shoved him back but he grabbed his waist. ‘I won’t. I could never.’

‘Then stop this. Help me save him.’ James looked imploringly into is eyes. ‘Trust me, if you cannot kill me. Trust him, for he made me.’

‘Or else strike the blow yourself,’ Nicholas said, ‘and be quick about it.’

Steve and James stood still as though they were yet another limestone growth protruding from the cave floor, eyes locked together. There was no sound but for distant dripping echoing around them. Finally, Steve’s eyes grew restful and decisive. He kissed James tenderly on the lips and broke away. A cloud drifted across the moon, and the shadows overtook the cave.


	6. The Spider's Web

Light not silver but orange and gold suffused the cavern. It flickered and danced off the rock formations, bringing with it footsteps and familiar voices. 

‘Is he here? Is he hale?’ Natasha called. 

‘Quickly!’ James replied. 

Natasha hurried forward, the flaming torch in her hand sending shadows careening across the walls and ceiling. Lord Stark followed her, expression drawn, along with Sir Samuel and Clint Barton who bore a palanquin between them. James’s hand went to his sword, but Natasha waved him away.

‘I have been making my own decisions about whom to trust.’ Natasha turned to James as Lord Stark began to poke at the king’s wound. ‘We must return quickly. The bells have been rung to tell the people of his death. The palace is in chaos.’

‘Who rang the bells?’ Nicholas asked sharply.

‘I do not know.’

‘The bleeding is long stopped,’ Stark pronounced, ‘and the wound is long, but not deep. You may live yet, your majesty.’

‘I have told you all time and again, I plan to live a long time yet,’ Nicholas grumbled, allowing Sam to help him into the palanquin. 

James turned to look for Steve, but he was nowhere to be seen. He made to call his name, but something stopped him. Instead he followed silently as the palanquin was carried out of the caves, avoiding Natasha’s questioning gaze.

 

With occasional directions from Nicholas, the strange procession found its way through the caves to the hidden door in the king’s chambers. They spilled into the tapestried room as the steely light of earliest dawn was creeping through the window. Beneath the king’s tower there was steady noise, shouts and running footsteps and wailing. Bells still rang in the distance.

‘Take me to the throne room,’ Nicholas commanded. ‘Pull back these curtains, let them all see that I am living still.’

Natasha tied back the curtains of the palanquin and Nicholas sat upright, looking as stiff and commanding as ever. James instinctively took the lead, sword drawn, and they made their slow way through the palace. They encountered a great many people along the way, several of whom exclaimed with joy, but yet more of whom turned pale and took flight. Many footsteps seemed to precede them as they drew closer to the throne room.

Through the windows, the day awoke in bloody crimson streaks across the sky. A chill wind was coming off the sea, sending tapestries flapping and pulling at hair and skirts. The bells had stopped, and as the procession reached the doors of the throne room a hush fell over everything, as though the world were holding its breath.

Members of the city guard stood at the door. The crossed their spears, blocking the king’s approach.

‘Make way for the king!’ James commanded.

‘The king is dead,’ one of them sneered. 

‘I would greatly like to know who has been spreading this lie,’ Nicholas boomed. He climbed unsteadily from the palanquin, but when he stood his back was straight and proud. ‘The king is very much alive, and you  _ will _ stand aside.’

The guards looked at each other with uncertainty. For a moment it seemed as though they might defy the king’s order, but they lowered their weapons and pushed open the doors. 

The throne room was chaotic, filled with more people than James had ever seen. A full contingent of guards flanked the throne, dressed not in cloaks of blue but of deepest red, and above the throne was a banner which flapped and furled in the breeze. Its insignia was obscured, but James knew what it would be. 

Peter crouched before the throne. He turned as they entered, and James saw that his face was bruised and swollen. Anger flared in him. 

‘Sir!’ Peter cried. ‘I told them, I know nothing-’

‘Hush.’

Atop the throne sat Lord Alexander Pierce, a thin gold circlet upon his brow. His usual quiet raiment of blue and grey was replaced by a surcoat of thick red velvet, and he wore a bone-handled dagger at his waist. He gazed down at Peter with a bored expression. At his left stood Brock Rumlow, and at his right was Sir Steve. They were both dressed in full plate, with red cloaks, their swords drawn. Rumlow stared at Nicholas’s little troupe with unfiltered anger, but Steve stared straight ahead, expression blank.

‘Lord Pierce! I take it you are keeping my seat warm for me.’ Nicholas strode forward, a little slow, perhaps, but betraying no other sign of his wound. 

‘Nick.’ Pierce’s voice was quiet, dripping with contempt. Only those closest heard him, and gasped. ‘Risen from the dead, I see.’

‘I am not an easy man to kill, Alexander. You fought beside me many times, you should know.’ He stood, staring at Lord Pierce with a gaze both fierce and weary. ‘Whatever this is, you can stop it now.’

‘Behold, the Witch Queen’s power!’ Pierce bellowed suddenly, jumping to his feet. He pointed an accusing finger at Nicholas. ‘Many among you saw our good King Nicholas killed! What stands before you now is not a man but a spectre, a puppet controlled by dark magic!’

There were whispers among the assembled crowd. Some drew back or turned their heads away, as though the dark magic might be catching. 

‘King Nicholas, God rest his soul, did not take the threat she posed seriously. He let her spies whisper in his ear! The Lady Natasha, a spider who cast the Witch Queen’s webs and filled Nicholas with her poison! Sir James Buchanan, let back into King Nicholas’s trust despite bearing the scars of one betrayal already. He who has spent so much time at our borders, claiming he fought the Witch’s armies, but how can we truly know? All among us have heard rumours of the dark and terrible things this brave knight has done. We must act now, and wipe out the scourge before her armies overwhelm us!’ 

The hall was a cacophony of whispers. Lords and ladies shrunk back, muttering in agreement or confusion.

‘I’m disappointed in you, Alexander,’ Nicholas said, voice clear and steady above the murmuring crowd. ‘Is this the best you could come up with? Did you hate me, all this time?’

‘No, Nicholas. I loved you. As a brother, and as a sovereign.’ Pierce smiled beatifically. ‘The king is dead, long live the king.’

He gestured to Steve and Brock. They raised their swords, advancing forward. The crowd moved back, pressing against the walls. James, Clint and Sam formed up around Nicholas. James jerked his head to Peter, who ran behind them. He tried desperately to catch Steve’s eye, but the other man refused to meet his gaze.

‘Kill the witch’s puppet,’ Pierce called.

‘Protect the king!’ Sam called back louder, swivelling his head to pick out other guard members around the room. ‘Do not listen to his lies! Remember your oaths!’

Slowly, people pushed their way forward to form a ring around Nicholas. Those in red cloaks flanking the throne formed ranks before Pierce. Those without weapons began to trickle out the back of the hall to avoid the oncoming violence. 

Brock moved first. With startling speed he grabbed a knife from his belt and threw it, aiming straight at Nicholas. Almost as soon as it left his hand the blade went clattering to the floor. The room was still, all standing suspended in the morning’s amber light. Steve’s sword was outstretched, blocking the knife’s arc.

‘Lord Pierce lies!’ Steve cried. No one else moved. ‘The Witch Queen has not moved against us. The only conspiracy was his own! King Nicholas stands before you, in the living flesh!’

‘Silence!’ Pierce yelled. ‘What are you doing?’

Steve turned to him. ‘You used me. You manipulated me into helping plot the king’s death. You had Brock Rumlow attempt to assassinate him, and you failed.’

‘We’ll see,’ Pierce said quietly, smiling a small smile.

Brock darted forward, Steve only just blocking his sword in time. The throne room erupted into chaos. Several of the red-cloaked guards seemed unsure of where their allegiances truly lay, and many turned against one another while still others fled. Nicholas had somehow acquired a sword, and with James before him and Clint and Sam on either side, was slowly pushing forward towards Pierce. 

James kept Steve in his periphery almost without thinking. He was fighting singly against Brock, both of them dancing around the throne. Steve was fighting well but on the defensive, injured arm still clutched to his side. Pierce watched them both, lip curled in disappointment. 

Steve dropped a step and Brock kicked out, catching him in the chest. He fell badly on his injured arm and cried out. James felt something tear inside him, wanted to run to him, but did not leave his position. Brock turned then and locked his gaze upon the king. He grinned and whooped, leaping off the dais. He slammed into Clint, shoving him aside, and locked blades with Nicholas. James turned back, forcing Brock to defend his back while also attacking, but both James and Nicholas were unarmoured. 

‘Leave him to me, James,’ Nicholas snarled. ‘Stop Lord Pierce escaping.’

‘Now is not the time for heroics, Your Majesty,’ he replied with a grunt. 

‘Obey your king, James,’ Brock sneered, ‘like a good dog.’

‘You’ve failed to kill me twice already, boy,’ Nicholas said, ‘do you really fancy your chances?’

‘Have to get lucky some time.’ He feinted and thrust forward, narrowly missing Nick’s side. 

‘Pathetic.’ Nicholas stabbed him in the leg. 

Brock screamed, spinning and swiping at James. The blade bit into his hip, sliding off the chain mail hidden by his gambeson. James stumbled back. 

‘Enough!’ Pierce screamed. ‘Rumlow, finish this!’

There was a thick, wet noise, and Pierce looked down. Steve’s sword was buried in his torso. The room froze, all eyes turned to the dais. Blood bubbled from Pierce’s mouth. He looked up at Steve, whose expression was one of quiet fury, and buried a dagger in Steve’s shoulder. Pierce gave a strange, strangled cry, and slid wetly off the end of the sword. 

Steve fell backwards and collapsed. Brock made as though to bolt, but found himself suddenly with Lady Natasha’s blade at his throat. There was a clatter of weapons being dropped as Nicholas moved stiffly to the throne. 

Pierce had fallen against it, one arm reaching up toward the red banner, which was still now to reveal a design of tentacles protruding from a skull. He looked up at Nicholas, his mouth thick with blood.

‘You were always weak, Nick,’ he wheezed, ‘and blind. I had such high hopes.’

‘Oh, Alexander.’ Nicholas lifted his foot and nudged Pierce’s chest. He fell to the ground and rolled off the dais. When he came to a stop, he was dead.

‘Sir Samuel, Lady Natasha, round up the traitors to await trial.’ He sat heavily on the throne. ‘Have physicians sent to the throne room, as many as you feel necessary to convince the people that I am living still. Where is James?’

‘Here, my king,’ James said quietly from where he still stood, staring at Steve’s prostrate body. 

‘Is Sir Steven still alive?’ Nicholas asked coolly.

James rushed forward, cupping his hand under Steve’s head. His neck was scarlet with blood, but his eyes met James’s and he smiled. 

‘Yes, your majesty, he lives,’ James said tremulously. 

‘Good. make sure he stays that way.’ James met the king’s gaze. ‘He saved my life and killed the traitor. Time for heroics after all, it would seem.’

 

Steve lay without waking for three days, James rarely leaving his side. The kingdom was being rebuilt around them; traitors were being flushed out of the court, envoys sent to the Witch Queen’s kingdom to propose an alliance, the many tangled skeins of conspiracy and betrayal teased out and unravelled. The king’s nephew remained safe, moved to another secret location. James made appearances when required, but his mind lay always with Steve, with the rasp of his breath and the sputter of his heartbeat. 

‘The wound has not festered,’ Stark assured him with a curious look. ‘Time, now, will tell.’

James was sleeping fitfully, slipping in and out of troubled dreams, when he awoke to long fingers curling around his own. 

‘They have not executed me,’ Steve rasped, voice barely above a whisper, ‘or else we were both killed and this now is Heaven. Or perhaps you are an angel. You always had an angel’s face.’

James snorted. ‘The fever has taken you.’

‘Nay.’ Steve looked up at him and smiled. ‘Are we dead, then?’

‘We live still, as does our king. He has pardoned you, by-the-by.’ 

‘Ah. lovely.’ Steve’s eyes closed for a time, then flickered open again. ‘It cannot be Heaven, for then you would be kissing me.’

‘Then I shall not kiss you, lest you keep believing you are dead.’ 

‘This is Hell, then, for not to be kissed by you is torment.’ 

‘If I kiss you, will you accept that this is neither Heaven nor Hell, and we both still go on living?’ 

‘Very well.’ 

James leaned in and kissed him, and all the world seemed gold. 


End file.
